I want to run away to Iceland
live in an artistís colony
camp out in a tent made of velvet
filled with gypsy blankets, a muslin
door to capture the sunlight
sleep all blinding white day long
wake at sunset to a plateful
of boiled quail eggs, wild
mushrooms, crushed pomegranates
smoked brie, a small
jeweled glass of Chianti
which looks black as ink in the
slanting light; I want faces
too close to be examined
and very tiny French cigarettes
the kind which scrape stars
against the throat as they ease
down; I want the madness
of genius conversation, the
kind which is unexplainable
out of context; I want dreams
which fuel adrenalized visions
like jazz sparking open expectation
and erotica too pleasant to be mentioned
by anyone with taste; I want
mythology too large to be analyzed
intoxication, something cool, a nutrient
to purge this stifling, summer vitriol, this
ability to read subway maps and
speeches by the coward President regarding
the ordinary text of economic movement --
in reaction, apropos wit, mundanely marking it
like income tax receipts or parking tickets
all the things which make up a cloying cosmopolitan
labyrinth of intelligence and suitably fine print
(oh, migraine headache, I dream of the arctic)

------"All the darkness in the world
cannot put out the light
of one candle"

Lovely...
...it's my favorite adjective. It conveys a certain beauty and innocence that nothing else can. This is a lovely poem, and interestingly, serendipitously attuned to my weird self...I've recently dreamed of running of to Reykjavik. Seriously.

Really, this is a powerful, lyrical, true poem. You, like Joyce, experience jolting bursts of conscious creative thought. I think you're a fine poet, and I'm fortunate enough to know that you're also a fine painter, and Dionysian philosopher. :)

Your creative force is potent, lady. It's always a pleasure to see you exercise it.